That was all, except an impalpable sense of dust and worn-outness pervading the whole.

One thing more, odd enough there: a wire cage, hung on the wall, and in it a miserable pecking chicken, peering dolefully with suspicious eyes out at her, and then down at the mouldy bit of bread on the floor of his cage,--left there, I suppose, by the departed Teagarden.

That was all, inside.

She looked out of the window.

In it, as if set in a square black frame, was the dead brick wall, and the opposite roof, with a cat sitting on the scuttle.
Going closer, two or three feet of sky appeared.